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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28149135">The road to my heart leads me straight to your door</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/meet_the_girl_who_can/pseuds/meet_the_girl_who_can'>meet_the_girl_who_can</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Old Guard (Movie 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(he's all and he's more), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Artist Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Ficlet, He's not Joe's Personal Assistant, M/M, Mild Language, Nicky Is Not A Mouse, No Immortality, Not Beta Read, Personal Assistant! Nicky, Romantic Fluff, holiday romance</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 16:48:00</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,452</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28149135</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/meet_the_girl_who_can/pseuds/meet_the_girl_who_can</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“No harm done” the man grins at him, unguarded now and those obsidian eyes are positively sparkling at him. Nicky didn’t know eyes could really do that. He’s stunning, dark curls and a soft pink mouth tucked into a well kept beard “I was going to say that you shouldn’t bother with Mr. al-Kaysani, your friend will be terribly bored but I think we’re too late for that now” </p><p>Bouncing around the world at the whim of his flighty, bore of an employer, Personal Assistant Nicky di Genova suddenly finds himself spending time with the world renowned artist Joe al-Kaysani. And the more Nicky gets to know Joe, the more he just wants to look closer. In fact he's pretty sure he never wants to look anywhere else ever again.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>133</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The road to my heart leads me straight to your door</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Another WIP to add to the pile.</p><p> So this is inspired by Rebecca BUT it is very much not a Rebecca AU. It's very much just the Meeting a handsome bachelor in Monte Carlo and sneaking off for lots of romantic outings bit. Because Joe looks at Maxim de Winter and scoffs.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Nicky supposes that Monte Carlo is actually as beautiful and as fun as everyone is always supposed to be saying it is. He wouldn’t know, sadly. Because despite being in Monte Carlo, he is in Monte Carlo because of Mrs. Kingston and Mrs. Kingston wouldn’t know anything about fun or beauty if they danced together naked in front of her.</p><p>He should quit. He <em>knows</em> he should quit. But he’s saving up and he gets to travel the world, even though he never really sees much of it. And it’s not like there’s anybody waiting for him, back in Genoa anyway. So even as he pays and clambers out of the taxi, the driver kindly shouting after him because he forgot one of the many boxes he’s lugged all the way from town, Nicky can’t regret it. The wind ruffles its fingers gently through his hair, the sun is a warm kiss on his face and there’s salt in the air. And he could get all that in Genoa. But he wouldn’t get the strange, wonderful feeling of being somewhere <em>other. </em>Having a different ground beneath his feet, a different sky, of being outside the normal pace of daily life here, wherever here is. Exploring a world he knows nothing of.</p><p>Even Mrs. Kingston, with her endless list of trivial bits of this and that, can’t take that away from him. So he clatters up to the ridiculously opulent hotel suite, baggage and all, mentally barricading himself away for the onslaught of his employer’s personality.</p><p>“There you are, you lazy boy, what on earth have you been doing all this time?” She’s standing by the telephone, hands on her hips, court shoe thrumming a beat on the floor. Nicky longs for the anonymous bustle of the unknown streets, the sound of the sea. It was quiet by comparison.</p><p>“I’m sorry Mrs. Kingston” he murmurs politely, swallowing back his nerves. “Some of your parcels weren’t ready to go so I thought it best to wait on them”</p><p>“Well, never mind that now” she tutted. It was typical of her, once she had acquired something, she forgot all about it. Her moods were mercurial and chiefly she was irritable “I’ve just heard that Mr. Al-Kaysani is staying here and I want you to go down to the restaurant. Make <strong><em>absolutely</em></strong> sure that our table is next to his. The man’s divine company and - we’ve met before of course – but I <strong><em>must </em></strong>renew our acquaintance.”</p><p>“Who?” Nicky asks plainly, although part of him is already dreading the idea of meeting Mr. Al-Kaysani, if Mrs. Kingston reveres him so highly.</p><p>Mrs. Kingston gapes at him, those flinty hazel eyes flashing coldly at his confession of ignorance.</p><p>“Joe Al-Kaysani!” she cries shrilly, as if that’s meant to have any meaning at all to Nicky. “Of old Guardgate?!”</p><p>The words meant nothing to Nicky. She never remembers that he grew up in Genoa. The names and places of polite British society mean nothing to him. Whoever Joe is, if he makes Mrs. Kingston react like this, Nicky is fully prepared to hate his guts on principle.</p><p>“I wonder at you, sometimes child, I really do” she clucks petulantly, waving a hand so that her bracelets jangle loudly as she dismisses him. Oh right. The table. Fuck.</p><p>“Nicholas!” Nicky stops, jaw closing with a snap. She signs his pay cheques every month and <em>still</em> she gets his name wrong. It’s gone on too long for him to bother correcting her. Plus, she mispronounces it. “You’ll need a tip, honey”</p><p>Nicky’s mouth goes sour with bile. He swallows it back. For a snob, she’s so underhanded it makes his skin crawl. Keeping his mouth firmly shut, lest he vomit his contempt all over her, Nicky stalks back as far as he can and thanks God for his long arms as he reaches out to pluck the crisp 50 euros – <em>A</em> <em>fifty! Santa Maria, how much does she want to meet this Mr. Al-Kaysani?!</em> – shoves the bill as far down into his jeans as he can manage and makes his escape. Nicky’s first inclination is to do the honourable thing, and use Mrs. Kingston’s ‘tip’ to let him bribe the maître d’ into warning Mr. Al-Kaysani off, so the unsuspecting man doesn’t walk straight into an ambush. Unfortunately, given that Mrs. Kingston is a time honoured patron of the hotel, and Nicky’s only her staff, he’s got a horrible feeling the maître d’ will just rat him out.</p><p>So he makes his way to the maître’ d, a thin, stiff older gentleman and after confirming their lunch arrangement, Nicky ploughs ahead with a great sigh and asks that they be seated with Mr. Al-Kaysani. Nicky’s hand curls around the fifty in his pocket, but he doesn’t offer it. He’ll put it in the bellboy, Marcus’ tip jar. The maître’ d just glares at him, and looks at someone over his shoulder before turning back to Nicky. He doesn’t speak but Nicky knows dismissal when he sees it and turns to leave. Unfortunately, he smacks right into someone else.</p><p>A very gorgeous someone. All warm brown eyes, an inescapable pink mouth tucked into a neat dark beard, about Nicky’s own height and age; stunning in a white shirt that looks like one wrong move might pop a button. He might be the most beautiful person Nicky’s ever seen. Edible, no that wasn’t right. Well. It was. But there was a specific phrase…a snack!</p><p>The gorgeous man, whose watching him curiously, quirks a smile that’s more cautious than genuine. <em>Reflex</em>, Nicky thinks, <em>that’s all. </em>But he smiles back apologetically and the other man’s smile grows, so that he’s dimpling ever so slightly at Nicky. Meanwhile, Nicky’s knees have gone weak, ever so slightly. If this was anywhere else, if he was anyone else, not tied to Mrs. Kingston and her flightiness – as well as a horrible interest in his personal life, until Nicky decided it wasn’t worth trying to even have one while he was working for her at least - Nicky might have plucked up the courage to try and start a conversation. Apologise for keeping him, wait till he’d spoken to the Maître’ d, and introduce himself. Maybe ask him for a coffee, so he could hide away from Mrs. Kingston and the impressive al-Kaysani, whoever the poor bastard may be.</p><p>As it is, Mrs. Kingston, <em>naturally,</em> chooses this as her moment to arrive.</p><p>Fuck Nicky’s ever-loving fucking <em>life</em>.</p><p>“There you are!”</p><p>Nicky jumps a foot in the air and over the gorgeous man’s attractive shoulder -who has attractive shoulders, for goodness sake? And when did Nicky lose all coherency of thought, anyway? – he thinks with a belated sense of panic mixed with dismay, he can see Mrs. Kingston waving, cooing sweetly at him.</p><p>Unfortunately, the shock of it has caused Nicky to rip his hands out of his pockets, because Mrs. Kingston hates that, says it looks unprofessional and unengaging, and the change in his pockets goes flying, spilling out over the perfect flagstones of the terrace. Dropping to his knees, face on fire and wishing for death, Nicky starts scrabbling to pick up the collection of notes and stray euros.</p><p>“Oh, here. Let me – “</p><p>Nicky starts babbling platitudes, whilst muttering curses to himself in low Italian; about his clumsiness, his luck, Mrs. Kingston, capitalism.</p><p>“Here” the man’s hand enters Nicky’s eye line; a couple of coins and the €50 note in his open palm. Long, tapering fingers and while the nails are smooth and well kept, there’s calluses on the ring finger, and another on the side of his index finger too, accompanying the smooth silver ring there. He sounds amused and Nicky wilts. What is that expression? Dinner and a show? But, Nicky smiles weakly back and holds out his own hand for them; jumping at the warm brush of the man’s fingertips as he drops the coins into Nicky’s waiting palm. He’s so touch starved after this year bouncing round the world on Mrs. Kingston’s whims, it’s embarrassing.</p><p>“No harm done” the man grins at him, unguarded now and those obsidian eyes are positively sparkling at him. Nicky didn’t know eyes could really do that. He’s stunning, dark curls and a soft pink mouth tucked into a well-kept beard “I was going to say that you shouldn’t bother with Mr. al-Kaysani, your friend will be terribly bored but I think we’re too late for that now”   </p><p>It’s probably just the way they stand upright, the way the man gently offers his hand to Nicky to brace himself on as he clambers off his knees and turns his head at the sound of Mrs. Kingston’s shoes pummelling down the walk but there’s a mischievous glint in the man’s eye, that makes Nicky his co-conspirator.</p><p>More attractive all the time.</p><p>“Oh, Mr. al-Kaysani! You are kindness itself” In one fell swoop, Mrs. Kingston is upon them, clapping the man – and it’s not just any man, it’s <em>him, </em>it’s Mr. al-Kaysani, himself. Mr. al-Kaysani, who’s the most beautiful man Nicky has ever seen and had heard Nicky requesting they be seated next to him, and had obviously tried to get out of coffee with Kingston, as many brave men have tried before him and it’s all Nicky’s stupid fault that he’s going to have to suffer what’s to come. She latches onto Mr. al-Kaysani’s hand and shakes it vigorously. </p><p> <em>Who did I kill in a past life? Honestly, at this point, I’m interested, </em>Nicky asks the universe miserably.</p><p>“I’m Maria Kingston, you must remember – my late husband bought that marvellous sculpture of yours, the one with the all the porcelain flowers, the tree. Oh, Nicky, dear, what type of tree is it?” her brow scrunches, fingers clicking at him as she fails to remember. She never remembers.</p><p>“Magnolia blossoms” Nicky prompts quietly, not moving from beside Mr. al-Kaysani’s elbow. And then, because he can’t resist, and he doesn’t care if she gets him back for it later with some stupid snipe, he carries on, “’In Adversity, Bloom,’ is the name”</p><p>“Ah, yes!” Mr. al-Kaysani, grins at him, eyes crinkling and Nicky forgets his own name. It’s like staring at the sun. He’s so <em>warm</em>. He’s radiant; all charisma and ease, and obvious talent, too. Nicky loves that sculpture. As she says, it’s a beautiful tree, with a real wooden trunk carved, and then the boughs filled with porcelain recreations of blossoms at all stages of bloom. He sits under it, out of the way in the foyer of Mrs. Kingston’s Belgravia townhouse, when she’s entertaining, imagining he’s somewhere far away, wherever the delicately constructed blooms, every other one white with intricate designs painted in pink, had been before the artist had cast them into clay.</p><p>“It’s very beautiful” Nicky offers lamely, unsure of how to properly convey his appreciation without sounding forward or weird.</p><p> “It was one of my earlier pieces. I’m very pleased- “</p><p>“As you should be!” Mrs. Kingston reclaims her place in the conversation “I told Phillip, when he bought it, I said ‘Phil, this thing will be worth a fortune in a few years’ – we didn’t even know it was you who’d made it at the time! And since then, I’ve had a lot of interest, my friend Melanie – just last week was talking my ear off and I was thinking I might sell it to her, just to get her to stop asking about it! I certainly won’t just be giving away an al-Kaysani original though, especially not from your unknown youth” she chortles.</p><p>Nicky stands, stares at her. He doesn’t know much about art, doesn’t pretend to. Except that it has the power to make you think and feel, everyone sees something different, something that is some kind of reflection of themselves probably and you probably shouldn’t talk about turning a profit on a piece made by a renowned artist to the artist’s <em>face.</em> Let alone call someone old when you could be their mother.</p><p>“Ah” Mr. al-Kaysani’s gorgeous smile has stilted, frozen on his face. “Well, it was lovely speaking with you and your son but-“</p><p>“Son?!” Mrs. Kingston all but screeches, “Oh, heavens no. This is <em>Nicky.</em> My PA. No, my son, my Richard, he’s a hedge fund manager, over in New York. Just got engaged to a heavenly creature, a Vanderbilt. I think you know her?” Mr. al-Kaysani’s eyes are burning a hole in the side of Nicky’s face.</p><p>“Rebecca, is it?” And if his voice was warm before, its positively frosty now. “We’ve met. Gallery openings. You know”</p><p>“That’s her!” Mrs. Kingston snaps her fingers at him now, bracelets jangling. “ I was just about to sit down for coffee. Join me”</p><p>Not a question. Mr. al-Kaysani stiffens so much his shoulders are tighter than a bow string, drawing back towards the terrace doors. She doesn’t even notice “Richard will just <strong>die</strong>, knowing I bumped into you, they’re huge fans too of all your circle, of course. Especially, that little friend of yours – except she’s hardly little is she?” As if for Nicky’s benefit “lovely willowy Amazon, ought to be a model, if she’d just sort out her hair” she winks disloyally at Mr. al-Kaysani.</p><p>His eyes are gleaming, but it looks like holy fire, rather than mirth glittering there. “Andy. Yes. I’ll tell her you asked after her”</p><p>She must sense something of the arctic cold in his voice, “Well, coffee yes? Won’t you, Joe dear?”</p><p>For some reason, Mr. al-Kaysani’s gorgeous eyes find Nicky’s. He’s obviously trying to communicate something in that look of his, but Nicky can only telegraph blank apologies back. He’s never been very good at this game.</p><p>“Well, I –“</p><p>“Oh, <em>marvellous</em>. Nicky, dear, go and flag down that waiter for another coffee cup will you please. Joe, darling, you must tell me about Guardsgate, and that darling little protégé of yours, Nina. Here’s our table” she manhandles Joe into a chair at the table, while Nicky stands dumbly. He needs to stop her, needs to say Joe clearly doesn’t want to, clearly hates every second he’s spend talking to them and is too good and too kind not to suffer the hour long hell that awaits him. While Nicky goes to unpack the parcels and contemplate his life choices.</p><p>“Well, off you go, don’t keep us waiting” Mrs. Kingston insists, smile sharp and saccharine.</p><p>
  <em>Kill me. Kill me now. </em>
</p><p>Joe looks to be about Nicky’s age but he oozes confidence. Even being cut off and boxed into a situation he wants no part in, Joe isn’t losing his calm. Nicky thinks his legs have grown roots as he tries to sort through what the right response to this is. But he doesn’t want to leave Joe to this fate, even for a moment. He gets paid to deal with this bullshit. Of course, he puts a foot wrong and he could end up unemployed but miraculously bullshit free.</p><p>“Oh no, you must both join me for coffee” Joe says from his chair, with a gentle, hopefully genuine smile for Nicky. He stands up, and this, to Mrs. Kingston. “I insist” and makes a gesture at the waiter to bring another cup over, thanking him warmly for obliging.  Then he edges round, pulls out Mrs. Kingston’s seat for her and then pulls out one for Nicky with an easy smile.</p><p>Nicky sits and tries not to flush at how painfully aware he is of Joe at his back, the scent of his cologne in the air before he steps away; effortlessly stylish. He’s just wearing a leather jacket and black pants, probably designer from the amount of zips on them, Nicky wouldn’t know. But he looks amazing. Nicky doesn’t care about clothes, wears what he likes. But he feels frumpy now. In his skin.</p><p>“There, all settled” the tingles on the back of Nicky’s neck are from the sudden gentle blow of the sea breeze blowing in onto the sun drenched terrace, honest.</p><p>Coffee and conversation come quickly. Well, it’s mainly Mrs. Kingston talking, but Joe holds his own admirably, just lets her monologue, but when he corrects her it’s in the same devastating one liners that Nicky does in his head. He knows it’s probably very stupid to side with a man he’s only just met against his employer, to say I Am on Your Side, to Joe but he’s beautiful and kind and actually acknowledges that Nicky is a human being. It’s not like she’ll fire him or anything, she’d be stranded in this place more than he would. He just hates that he needs the job this much.</p><p>“So tell me about Nina! Where did you pick her up, hmm?” Kingston asks, all bubbly, coffee hardly touched and Joe’s nearly all gone. Nicky had drunk his in five minutes, just for something to do, and refused Joe’s offers to get him another one.</p><p>“Nile found me, actually. Or I suppose we were thrown together, showcasing at the same gallery. She was only just starting out” Joe positively chugs his coffee and then there’s a buzzing in his pocket. He slides out his phone, “Ah, speak of the angel. Forgive me, <em>won’t you</em>?” he nods at them both before getting up, phone to his ear and walking away.</p><p>“<em>Perfect timing, little sister, as per usual. God, you would not believe the monologue I just endured. Frightful fucking woman. Bought one of my sculptures, about a decade ago. I don’t know how that poor PA of hers copes, genuinely. She insulted Andy’s hair, so I don’t expect her to live long.” </em>A laugh, gentle and vibrant, “<em>He’s gorgeous, Nile. You know me, I’m a sucker for that…little sister!</em> <em>Out of the mouths of babes, indeed.</em>”</p><p>It takes him a moment to realise Joe was speaking in Italian. He stares after him open mouthed, as Joe reaches the elevator, strolls in still on the phone, talking to Nile. When he sees Nicky watching him, he winks.</p><p>O</p><p>Mrs. Kingston is, predictably, pretty pissed off about their interrupted interlude with Joe al-Kaysani. She tells Nicky off for attempting in integrate himself, which he doesn’t fully see where that’s coming from considering he didn’t say much to Joe but it makes her feel better and means Nicky can escape to his book, propping one of the balcony doors open so it’s just him and the ocean breeze for a while.</p><p>And then there’s a knock at the door. Mercifully, Mrs. Kingston hears nothing, allowing Nicky to slip from his seat to answer the door and tell the poor bellboy, Marcus, to leg it while he still can.</p><p>“What’s the message?” he asks, allowing his tiredness to show as he leans against the doorframe because well, it’s Marcus. All customer service workers together and all that. “She’s…indisposed,” (read had a large double vodka and coke and is lying down) “at the moment”</p><p>“No, it’s for you, Nicky” Marcus winks, handing over the envelope. “Any reply?”</p><p>Nicky flips it over curiously. It’s a hotel envelope, all glossy gold flowing script. The room number, 1066, however is scratched in spiky black ink underneath. “Um,” Nicky swallows, <em>What the actual fuck?</em> He asks himself, “No, no” he manages after a second. Marcus smiles at him knowingly and that’s when Nicky decides to shut the door on this particular conversation because he doesn’t even know what it is yet. “Thank you Marcus” he manages, distractedly.</p><p>Ripping into the polished envelope reveals a scrap of paper that doesn’t match the envelope neatly folded over.</p><p><em>Forgive me for leaving you to the vulture.</em> The back of Nicky’s neck grew warm at the use of his private nickname for the hateful woman. He hadn’t been imagining it. Joe definitely spoke Italian. <em> Now that I’ve recovered from two sudden blows so close together – can I beg a second chance at coffee with you, Nicky? I’ll be by the pool, hoping. </em></p><p>
  <em>Yours, Joe. </em>
</p><p>And then – the strangest and cutest thing, there was a little illustration at the bottom of the page of a mouse equipped with sword and shield fending off a vulture wearing a particularly familiar and loathed hat that Nicky could see left abandoned on the table in the middle of the room.</p><p>Slipping the note into his wallet, lest a certain vulture find it, Nicky slips out the door, easing it shut behind himself.</p><p>The closer he gets to the pool, the more twisted his stomach becomes. He doesn’t even know Joe, really, and suddenly has a horrible doubt that this is all some terrible prank and Joe may not even be there or if he is, it’s just to laugh at him. But no, Joe is there and beams that wonderful crinkled smile at Nicky when he sees him, standing up to wave him over.</p><p>“Nicky! I see you managed to get away” he said as they sat down, “What did you tell her?”</p><p>“Nothing,” Nicky replies honestly, “She’s uh, napping”. Joe nods and Nicky’s suddenly struck a little dumb, because he genuinely doesn’t know what Joe wants with him. There’s what he <em>hopes </em>Joe wants, but that could just be him. He picks up the coffee cup at his place setting, turning it over in his hands before realising he should probably serve the coffee now. But when the fresh pot Joe orders upon his arrival, Joe makes for it first until Nicky swats his hands away, automatically. He freezes at the familiarity of it, the presumption but Joe only looks pleased.</p><p>“If you insist” he says, jovial and unperturbed</p><p>“I do” Nicky confirms and finds himself smiling back. It’s just nice, to speak to someone his own age who’s not commiserating over their work life, but just allowed to be like this, exist in the comfort of being.  They sit across from each and doctor the coffee to their likings. Joe has milk and two sugars, Nicky registers out of habit before remembering this could well be a one off and he doesn’t need information about this gorgeous man haunting him. Even something as banal as how he likes his coffee.</p><p>Joe laughs to himself just a little, just a small huff of breath and crosses his arms across his chest, leaning back in his chair “I’ve just realised I don’t even know your last name. Or if Nicky is short for anything.” He unfolds one arm and holds his hand out across the table. “Yusuf al-Kaysani. Joe. It’s a pleasure to meet you – “</p><p>Nicky clasps Joe – Yusuf’s hand – in his, those long, elegant fingers, there’s an ink stain from the note on his thumb, from the drawing and Nicky smiles at the thought of it, tucked in his wallet, at the smallness of the interaction and the memory of it, left in that inkblot.</p><p>“Nicolò di Genova” he finishes for Joe and they gently shake hands. Well, they shake hands and then, seem to forget to let go, so they’re just sort of holding hands at this point. Is it Nicky or does Joe give his hand a light squeeze before shifting – the way they’re leaning in a half crouch over the table is quite awkward – and letting go to sit back down.</p><p>“A name as lovely as Nicolò and you go by Nicky?” Joe asks, and then says something in Arabic which Nicky doesn’t understand but from the tone of it is definitely a curse. “Shit, I’m sorry that wasn’t very polite was it?” Joe apologises, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck and looking up at Nicky from beneath his eyelashes. Intentional or not, that is just <em>unfair. </em></p><p>“She mispronounces it, so I just go by Nicky. Either is fine, though”</p><p>“Well, Nicolò” and Nicky smiles when Joe gets it right, “you must call me Yusuf then, please. Let us see each other as we really are, rather than making things easier for anyone.” <em>Oh </em>Nicky thinks, <em>Oh no, oh help. </em></p><p>But he manages to smile back and answers Joe’s questions about why he’s a PA, what Mrs. Kingston does: “Nothing. She’s a rich widow who got a personal assistant because ‘everyone whose anyone has a personal assistant’</p><p>“And she’s an everyone wanting to be an anyone?” Joe summarises and Nicky’s not a little bit in love with him from that statement alone, nope, not at all.</p><p>He hums in traitorous agreement, glad for the relative quiet by the tea tables and for whatever divine intervention has meant that the maître d’ remains at his podium and out of earshot, “except she wanted to go one better apparently. Said something about my accent and a pretty face to make her friends jealous or something.” Joe sits up straight at that, hands on the arms of his chair.</p><p>“She what?!  I don’t know how you have the patience to put up with her!” Something warm spreads sweet and syrup slow from Nicky’s heart right the way up to his shoulders at Yusuf coming to his defence like that. But he wants to smooth the stormy expression on Joe’s lovely face.</p><p> “It’s not so bad, really. I have plenty of time to try and write and I get to travel. And it pays well enough that one day, I’ll be able to see the world without Mrs. Kingston in the corner of my eye. Just…not yet.”</p><p>“Well hopefully sooner, rather than later” Joe agrees, leaning back in his chair. “So you’re a writer?”</p><p>“Aspiring. But tell me about you, about your art, please? The magnolia tree is magnificent. Is it only sculpture you do or sketching too – I mean I know you can sketch but – “</p><p>“Jack of all trades, me. Sketching and painting is my favourite, but I do the other stuff too. It’s a shame she wants to sell it, considering she only has the incomplete version” At Nicky’s furrowed brow, Joe continues, “There were meant to be loose blossoms on the ground to complete the life cycle? But they didn’t want them, I’ve still got them in a drawer somewhere”</p><p>“Ah, she used to have dogs, so- “</p><p>Yusuf’s face clears “Can’t leave them on the floor. Fair enough. Now” he straightens and rubs his hands over his thighs, “Unless she does something completely fucking ghastly to you – or tries to set you up with that little weasel of a nephew, Stephen – who’s completely fucking ghastly himself by the way – let’s not speak of her again, intentionally, if we can help it”</p><p>Nicky breathes a sigh of relief, “Amen” and Yusuf laughs and the sound reverberates around the sun drenched pool, the light sparkling on the water.</p><p> This is definitely something he can’t get in Genoa.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm on tumblr @ meet-the-girl-who-can if you'd like to come say hi</p></blockquote></div></div>
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